Dealing With Children
by SherlockianGirl
Summary: Sherlock has always been something of a child, but Lestrade finds that dealing with children isn't always so bad.


Detective Inspector Lestrade tossed his mobile phone onto the desk and reached a hand up to massage his temples. Why did that impudent young man insist upon correcting his every observation? He looked up, thinking, then reached over and turned the device to silent. Emphatically.

A half hour later found the inspector still filing a stack of the latest trivial crimes to be dragged to his attention. Lestrade had begun to nod off in his chair, but started at the sound of a voice.

"Not reason enough to ignore your mobile."

"Good Lord, Sherlock! Knock on the door like everyone else!"

"Everyone else?"

Lestrade sighed. "It's common courtesy, whether your last name is Holmes or not."

"Hmph." Sherlock swept into a chair and tugged at his scarf. "You did not reply to my text."

"Yes, I know."

"The others won't work with me."

"Surprising."

"John's out on business."

"Unfortunate."

Sherlock's mouth twitched. "I needa second party to help with my physics experiment to prove the murder of Henry Murdoch, since for some reason I cannot be let upon the scene."

Lestrade folded his arms across his chest. "Surely there's some other team in the Yard that would suit your work better."

A puzzled look flitted across Sherlock's face. "I don't need a team."

"Sherlock, we're not your catering service."

"And I suppose my help with your petty investigations is only a rental," came the sharp retort across the desk.

Lestrade buried his face in his hands. "And now you're going to throw a tantrum."

"I might, though I believe it far beneath me."

"Everything's beneath you, Sherlock," Lestrade snapped.

"Will you come, then?"

"I have paperwork to take care of, files to sort-"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Boring. Petty. You will come help instead?"

"Ask me again and you'll be investigating your own murder."

Sherlock huffed.

The inspector ran a hand through his silvered hair. The nerve of that man. There would be no stopping Sherlock once he had it in his mind to do something, but perhaps the situation could be used to an advantage. A learning opportunity, even.

"Fine, Sherlock. But on one condition."

The younger detective looked wary. "Yes?"

"You help me with this office work first."

A look of disgust crossed Sherlock's sharp features, but after a moment in silent loathing followed by deep thought, he managed to mutter a faint, "Fine."

"Great. We'll start with these reports I need taken to the next room."

Sherlock took a step back, the look of contempt returning to his face. "I really don't think-"

Lestrade smiled, warming up to his plan. "Lesson one, Sherlock. No work is beneath you. You cannot always choose how things are done, but that doesn't change the fact that they still need doing."

Sherlock fixed the inspector with a steely glare, but crossed the room and hefted the large stack of folders out the door.

He stopped abruptly and whirled on his heel. "Do you need something, Lestrade?"

"Keep going."

"But you're following me."

"Yes, I know. Keep going. That desk there."

Sherlock muttered something and strode toward the indicated area, dropping the stack of reports onto the desk carelessly. "Your reports, I believe." The sergeant sitting a foot away stared as the files cascaded across the surface in a swath of papers.

"Now pick them up," came the inspector's gruff voice.

"Up? They're _on_ the table, Lestrade!"

"There are things known as stacks. It makes things more efficient."

Sherlock threw his hands in the direction of the papers. "That _is _a stack!"

Lestrade cocked an eyebrow. "No, it's a path of death and destruction. Now fix it."

Sherlock gave him a contemptuous look before turning to straighten the mess of files. "There."

"Good boy."

"I'm not your puppy," Sherlock snarled through gritted teeth, stalking away from the desk.

"Well, you're being trained, anyhow," Lestrade smirked. "Just need a little work on your people skills."

"My _what_?"

Lestrade held up his hands, nodding. "I know. I know. You don't have any. We can fix that."

Sherlock had sought refuge once again in the inspector's office. "I just…want to conduct… a _bloody experiment_!"

"So do I. You do realize that you're surrounded by what are known as _people_? You talk to people using things called _manners_."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "How illogical."

"How necessary. You know, you'd get a lot more from others, Sherlock, if you would actually treat them like human beings."

"It has no bearing on my investigations." Sherlock countered quickly. "Are people facts? Are they evidence? That is the only capacity in which they can serve me."

Lestrade sighed, his humor waning. "You cannot talk to facts. Neither can you depend upon evidence to be there for you. People are more than just pawns, you know. They mean something in the end. _Try _to remember that."

Sherlock blinked but said nothing.

"Now," Lestrade said, clearing his throat, "Paperwork. Have a seat."

The young detective groaned, but sank into the chair opposite the inspector's."I see you've recently gone through this stack," he muttered. "Probably looked over…about eight papers. Though in a leisurely manner, between your coffee bre-"

"Stop it."

"Stop what?"

"Deducing my office work. It's enough for you to do it elsewhere, much less here."

Sherlock smirked. "The Yard cannot compete on its own ground, mm?"

"Not everything is a competition, Sherlock."

"Right. Since there is none to be had."

Lestrade leaned back in his chair. "Really."

Sherlock gave a pretentious sniff.

Lestrade reached behind him and tossed a folder of photographs onto the center of his desk. "Your possible suspects in the Murdoch case. Well, so far. Photographed yesterday, an hour or so after the murder."

Sherlock leaned forward with interest, his fingers flicking through the photos in the folder. "This one's out," he commented, tossing a picture aside.

Lestrade leaned his chin on his hands. "Edmund Harker? Surely not."

But his guest had already puffed himself up, preparing the devastating deductive list that would put the end to all debate. "It's quite obvious, really. Harker would never have the strength to hoist Murdoch over the stair railing to fall to his death below. Lack of essential muscular structure and build. The way he holds his left arm-it has obviously been slightly deformed since birth. Therefore, an inherent weakness in that limb. His clothing suggests a regular workman, not the type to frequent Murdoch's regular establishment. I believe Harker was a carpenter? Yes, yes, we had recorded his profession. He had no plausible reason to have been present-"

"As a matter of fact, he did," Lestrade interrupted.

The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched into a patronizing smirk. "Do tell."

"Harker was a carpenter, yes, but a specialist in his trade. Look here, Sherlock. Why are his hands cut? Out of pure habit, he would have worn gloves when working with the wood which means-"

"He did the job in a hurry," Sherlock breathed, throwing the inspector an incredulous look. "The murder wasn't plotted. An opportunity came and he took it."

Lestrade reached for his notebook and flipped through it. "Murdoch had called Harker in to install a mantelpiece earlier that day. Hardly an event worth mentioning, when Murdoch's body was found on the floor much later. Not an obvious connection. Broken back, forensics said."

"He fell from the second floor balcony overlooking the sitting room. That much is obvious. But if Harker couldn't lift Murdoch over the railing-"

"He must have gone through it."

Sherlock scoffed. "There was no evidence of broken woodwork at the scene. None. Which leaves us to conclude that an accomplice was-"

"Never there," Lestrade jutted in emphatically. "If he did the preparation fast enough to be remiss in wearing gloves, he surely did not have time to acquire an accomplice."

Sherlock's mouth twitched into the slightest of smiles. "Then what do you suggest, Inspector?"

"Harker found an excuse to break the balcony railing and replace it in the same day."

Sherlock's eyes were glowing. "Of course. All he would have to do would be to invite Murdoch upstairs to investigate the repairs-"

"Then push him through the last gap of the railing before replacing the final part," Lestrade finished, a slow smile spreading across his face.

Sherlock turned the photograph over in his hands. "Any evidence to confirm this hypothesis?"

"A dusting of sawdust was found on his trousers, though we didn't think much of it at the time. I've had the house remain under watch, so the scene remains untouched from yesterday."

Sherlock's smile widened. "Well, I suppose one man in the Yard can hold his own. On occasion."

Lestrade folded his arms across his chest with a laugh. "You doubted it."

"Not in the least. Whatever gave you that idea? Now, I we must confirm our suspicions by visiting the scene in question. Now, preferably."

Lestrade nodded toward the door. "You'll need to get those files back from that sergeant."

Sherlock strode out the door, and the inspector caught a faint "I beg your pardon…" escape Sherlock's lips. He smiled to himself as he pocketed his notebook.

Then Sherlock was back, placing the files on Lestrade's desk in a neat stack, more or less. "Now we've got something fun going on! Quick! Your coat! We haven't a minute to lose!"

"What about your experiment?" Lestrade pointed out.

"Hang the experiment! We've finally cracked the case!"

Lestrade shouldered his coat on. "Yes, but surely the great Sherlock Holmes does not wish to be accompanied by a detective inspector, who will only bungle up his investigation. Or so I have been led to believe."

Sherlock offered the tiniest of smiles as he turned on his heel and swept deftly from the room. "There are times…when I am lost without my Yarder," he called back over his shoulder.


End file.
